


Houses in Motion

by MooseFeels



Category: Lupin III
Genre: (?), (mentioned) - Freeform, Domestic, Hand Jobs, Implied Bondage, Mutual Masturbation, Suicide Attempt, i might be unclear about what mutual masturbation actually is, maybe? - Freeform, they fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: Between jobs, in a safehouse, with hardly any space between them at all.





	1. Chapter 1

Jigen settles into the room. Goemon knows for sure that they’re going to be holed up here for a  _ while _ when he turns the record on and heads through the apartment to try to find the washer and dryer Lupin mentioned.

All of them collect places like this-- leases held in fake names or held by friends of friends of friends. Places to get their breath in between jobs, to shake the police, to rendezvous, to lie low. Sometimes they’re there for all of four hours; sometimes its days. 

Goemon has learned that it’ll be a day or more when Jigen changes out of his stale clothes and washes them. 

They don’t have luggage. There’s a house near a forest, far away from this Spanish apartment, that has a chest full of clothes that belong to Goemon.  Goemon wonders if Jigen has a chest like that somewhere, too. If he has a house like that. Jigen, Goemon supposes, must have been born  _ somewhere _ . Jigen doesn’t talk about where he came from. Jigen doesn’t talk about who his family is or where he’s been or where his gun or his hat came from. Jigen doesn’t talk about it, and he doesn’t identify himself through it. 

The house Goemon was born in is older than the Tokugawa Shogunate. 

Goemon sits with his hands rested over his knees, trying to get the pressing, buzzing feeling between his ears to wash away.. 

Goemon wonders about Jigen, and the wondering at onces makes the buzzing much better  _ and _ leads inexorably down a route that makes the buzzing worse. 

Goemon isn’t supposed to--

Goemon’s marriage was arranged for him when he was fourteen. He has still never met her. 

Goemon wonders about Jigen, because he’s still too attached, because because he’s still not strong enough, because he’s still not the man his father was and the person his ancestors would not be ashamed of.

The buzzing intensifies. Goemon lets his eyes flutter closed. Restful. His internal gaze relaxes and he lets himself be drawn up tall and tight by his breath. 

Carefully, Goemon empties the terrible buzzing from his mind and lets only empty, grey stillness inside. 

Goemon listens to that silence until he hears, breaking through, soft humming. 

Jigen’s voice is rough and deep. Jigen smokes. He smokes mentholated cigarettes, a pack a day, more if they’re in a foxhole. Jigen’s voice hums lazily along with the notes of the main theme from  _ Swan Lake _ . 

Goemon’s surprised he recognizes it. Most of what he knows has been gleaned from listening to the radio while waiting places or going to jobs at major cultural institutions. . 

Goemon had not realized Jigen was a fan of the ballet. 

Goemon feels something twitch between his brows. 

He inhales, out of rhythm. Tries to climb into the silence again.

* * *

 

Shit, man, the kid is intense.

Jigen stands in the kitchen, apron over his fetid undershirt and boxers, and he cracks two eggs into the pan. There’s rice in a pot on the other eye. 

Jigen got work from Lupin about an hour ago that they’re going to be holed up for three weeks, minimum. Pops is hot on their tail and Lupin is leading him off trail with a minor situation in Thailand that he doesn’t need everyone for, just Fujiko for now. 

So Jigen’s lying low, and he also keeping an eye on Goemon because--

Well, shit, man, the kid is  _ intense _ .

Goemon is presently sitting cross legged on the couch, his back drawn ramrod straight, his eyes closed in that weird, present/absent way that so clearly isn’t sleeping, and isn’t really  _ not _ sleeping either.

Jigen can count on one hand all the times he has seen the kid sleeping,  _ really _ sleeping. Hair messy, mouth open, posture relaxed _ sleeping _ , and at least three of those times Jigen knows that the kid was less  _ sleeping _ and more  _ passed out from illness or driving himself to the edge of sanity.  _

Jigen finds himself absently humming along with the record. It’s not a particularly good recording, done by some backwater Eastern-European orchestra. Jigen’s sure Lupin picked it up third hand or something as a little joke at Jigen specifically. 

He is not a sentimental man, but sometimes, he is a man that remembers.

Jigen pulls out a plate and lands the eggs on it. Throws the pan in the sink and switches the eye with the rice off. When the kid is hungry, it’ll be there for him to eat. Jigen glances into the living room, where he’s still sitting, hands rested over his knees, over his sword.

_ That _ goddamn thing. 

Jigen can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen the kid truly relaxed. Jigen also has a tally of times the kid was truly,  _ sincerely _ , prepared to die. 

Jigen loves his gun and his hat. He has memories with both of them, intractable, hard to explain ones. Neighborhoods and mentors; blood on his hands and betrayal and a body going cold in his hands. Jigen would not  _ die  _ for either of them, though. There are other hats. There are other guns. 

Jigen remembers Goemon’s slender, competent hands fashioning a noose. He remembers those same hands awkwardly, shakingly, holding a revolver. All because he lost his  _ fucking _ sword.

Jigen stands in the kitchen and eats; to do it in the living room seems like interrupting something. 

Jigen commands himself to stop fucking  _ staring _ at the kid, his legs crossed evenly, his kimono falling slightly away from his pale, slender chest. The light flooding in from between the blinds backlights  him unevenly, his silhouette strange and statuesque in the weird gold of late-afternoon. His long, dark hair falling in front of his ears, slightly into his face. His thin, intense features closed off. 

Jigen turns away, back into the kitchen.

Goemon’s voice is always deeper than Jigen remembers it, and it startles him to hear him say, “There is room on the couch, Jigen.”

Jigen finds himself calculating for a hot moment. “Thought maybe you were sleeping,” he answers. 

“No,” Goemon answers. 

Jigen’s Japanese is rusty enough (and it was never very good to begin with-- mostly cobbled together from what his mother and father used at home and from tense, short phonecalls to distant relatives back in Japan) to know whether Goemon is this precise and  _ terse _ in his native tongue, too. He suspects he is. 

Jigen creeps out of the kitchen and sits on an armchair roughly opposite the couch. 

“Washing machine will be free in an hour,” he says. 

“Do we have a bathtub?” Goemon asks.

Jigen shrugs. “Hell,” he says. “Probably? This place has two of ‘em.” It’s Lupin’s place, so it’s swankier than most of the places Jigen scouts out and  _ palatial _ compared to Goemon’s spots. 

Goemon nods, the barest gesture. “I will wash my clothes later tonight,” he says.

“What, washing machine not work?” Jigen asks. 

“It will disturb the pleats on my hakama,” he answers. “And I do not know where in Spain I would get them reset.”

Jigen looks up from his plate and Goemon’s eyes are open. 

Goemon is beautiful. Not  _ handsome _ , beautiful. Always something spare and severe and almost  _ sensual _ to him. His dark eyes-- always sharp and clear-- cut across the room. Jigen can’t believe they were talking about something as trivial as  _ laundry _ . Not for the first time, Jigen feels caught. 

Goemon unfolds himself and rises easily from the couch. Strides into the kitchen.

It’s gonna be a weird two weeks.

Minimum.


	2. Chapter 2

Goemon has learned to love being off balance. 

Jigen is older than him-- older and more experienced. There is something rumpled and wrinkled and worn to him. There’s something so natural to him  that make something feel strange in Goemon’s own chest. 

Goemon knows what’s placed him here, at this traveling life-- at once painfully dispossessed of everything and painfully leashed to his strangling roots. Goemon is a killer, fundamentally-- an instrument to enact the will of others on an ugly, disorganized world. Goemon cannot divorce himself from this purpose, and though he is a killer, he is not a soldier. Or at least, if he is a soldier, the war he is a part of has long become invisible.  Goemon knows that the only way to survive-- for his family to survive-- he must do terrible things. 

Jigen doesn’t shave. He has a dark beard that grows long from his chin. Jigen will go days and days without bathing, and even longer without washing his clothes. Goemon knows he prefers not to, though. Goemon knows that Jigen loves to watch cowboy movies. He likes jazz records and heavy dinners and reading the newspaper in the morning. Goemon knows that Jigen likes crossword puzzles, even if they frustrate him and usually end up half completed. Goemon knows that Jigen hums under his breath when he does dishes. 

There is no Goemon distinct from his job. From his sword. 

Goemon wonders who Jigen is.

Goemon has learned to love not knowing. 

Goemon has learned to love being off balance. 

It starts to rain one morning. The fat droplets slap against the slate roof. The sound fills the apartment. It creeps in through the open windows and echoes down the hall. It starts to rain and it doesn’t stop. 

The apartment is dry and clean. It’s not modern, but there’s something quite rich and soft to it.  Everything is old-- antique-- but clearly beloved. Goemon wonders if it belonged to Lupin’s grandfather. The couch is soft and comfortable. The table is rich, dark wood. The kitchen counters are cool marble, The stove is as beautifully painted and detailed as one of Lupin’s cars.

_ Luxury breeds attachment _ .

Goemon straightens. He takes a long, deep breath, and tries to ground himself. 

It’s the small hours of the morning. Dark still, but soon the sun will rise. It feels expectant. 

Lying low gives Goemon a lot of time to himself, and not space enough to do much other than meditate. 

Goemon used to not mind meditation. Now it preys on him. 

Goemon doesn’t have attachments. 

A light flicks on down the hall. A door opens. Jigen stumbles out of a bedroom, still dressed, if only in his shirtsleeves and slacks. He stumbles into another room and slams the door.

Goemon doesn’t have attachments.

* * *

 

Jigen is pan frying himself some toast, in the small hours of the morning. He has the radio on-- he’s managed to find a station that plays mostly classical guitar pieces-- and he’s trying to clear his head. He hasn’t had a cigarette yet. He hasn’t had coffee yet, either. It started raining here a few days ago and it hasn’t stopped. He doesn’t like to smoke in the apartment. He knows Goemon doesn’t care for it. 

He’s standing in front of the stove when Goemon slips quietly into the kitchen.

Jigen only knows he’s done it because he’s learned to hear him. His soft foot falls and the particularly rhythm of his quiet breath. He used to not hear him at all ( _ Jesus kid, we should put a bell on you! Fuck!) _ but now his ears prickle at the knowledge. 

“Do you have a spare shirt?” Goemon asks him. His voice is low and soft. “It’s cold.”

Jigen looks over his shoulder, and then turns around. Goemon has his arms wrapped around himself, only wearing his weird tied underwear.

“Shit, where are your clothes?” Jigen says, before he can stop himself. “You must be freezing--”   
“I had to wash them,” he says. “Last night. And now they’re drying.”

Jigen wishes he had a damn cigarette. Anything to fiddle with between his teeth. 

“There’s something in the dresser, in the bedroom,” he says. “It’s not mine, but hell. Don’t be cold.”

Goemon nods. He slips away out of the kitchen. 

Jigen wishes he had a cigarette. 

He pulls his toast off the stove. It’s burnt. 

The radio softly plays in the rain filled apartment. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise


	3. Chapter 3

Goemon is always a little overwhelmed and surprised by putting on western clothes. The ritual is different. The way they sit on his body is different. The way they secure and close is different. Goemon feels conspicuously covered in them, but he also feels naked. They feel so much less like armor than he’s used to. 

He looks at himself in the pier glass resting against the wall. 

Goemon has never really known what to make of himself. Of his reflection and his narrow face and his hard eyes and shaggy hair. 

It’s longer than he’d like. He could cut it while he’s here. 

He gathers his hair into his hands. He frowns.

He walks away from the mirror and back down the hall. 

The paper is out on the table. Folded open to the crossword already. A cup of coffee, black, beside it. 

The door to the balcony is open. Jigen is standing out, looking through the rain at the city below, smoking.

Goemon has a pipe in the folds of his clothes-- Goemon has a pipe with him. He doesn’t have tobacco, but he does have his pipe. He considers stepping out and asking Jigen for a cigarette, just for something to do. Just for some pretense to talk to him. 

He’s not good at talking like this. At talking the way  _ people _ do, with their words instead of their actions. He never does it right. He never asks the right questions or says the right things. He’s not good at being close to people. He’s not cut out for this. 

Goemon feels weird in the clothes that aren’t his. He goes to the kitchen, to dish himself a bowl of rice. 

The radio is playing softly. It’s something on guitar that he doesn’t know. It’s methodical and sweet. It makes the dark, grey apartment feel even more melancholy.

Goemon thinks that maybe that’s why he gets along with Jigen. There’s something melancholy about both of them. Lupin is always jangling with energy and animation, like every one of his limbs is fighting to go in a different direction at once. Lupin is is cheerful like a budding tree, bursting with life. And Fujiko is so quick and so clever that Goemon has trouble imagining her being still long enough to feel the way he feels. The things he feels. 

But he and Jigen, they are both heavy with something. Something that makes them still and quiet and strange in the long hours. There’s something fragile to the sadness that hangs between them. 

“Goemon,” Jigen says, from outside. “Do you ever get bored?”

Goemon considers this, carefully. 

“I have much to contemplate,” he says, finally. “I don’t think I have the time.”   
Jigen laughs, just once, just loud enough for Goemon to hear. He puts out his cigarette. Goemon takes a bite of rice. 

“I should have guessed,” Jigen murmurs. “What about cards? Do you play those?”

* * *

 

Jigen pulls the deck of cards from his jacket pocket and shuffles it a few times. He sits down on the couch, the table between them. Jigen’s not sure where he picked up the deck. The cards are a little bent and damaged, but they are familiar under his hands. Hours of solitaire, of shuffling, of card tricks. He deals ten cards to both of them. 

“Gin rummy,” he murmurs. “Have you played?”

Goemon shakes his head. “We only played koi-koi,” he says. “And even then, rarely.”

“That’s that poetry game, right?” Jigen asks. 

“No,” Goemon answers. “I do not know what the _ poetry game _ is, Jigen.”

“Shit,” he murmurs. He lays down the deck and draws the first card for the discard. “Well, I don’t know what the hell my mom played, then.”

Goemon looks at the cards. 

Jigen looks at his own. 

“You’re trying to make sets,” Jigen says. “Sets of three minimum. Either runs of numbers, or types in different suits. Draw a card either from the face or from the deck. Discard. Turn ends when you have ten cards in your hand.”

Goemon picks up a card from the deck. He studies his hand seriously.    
“How does the game end?” He asks. 

“Well, either your whole hand is usable a parts of sets, or my hand is, or you force the issue because you think this is as good as it gets. And then we score.”

“We keep score?” Goemon asks.

Jigen nods. “You can keep a game going for as long as you want,” he says. “Fujko and I have had a game going for almost two years.”   
Goemon slides a card into the discard pile. “Is that what this is?” He asks. “Distraction while you’re pigeonholed with someone?”

Jigen shrugs. “I figure you’ve gotta get sick of looking at the other side of your own eyeballs,” he says. He thinks about the cards in his hands, before he draws from the stock. “You’re better company than Fujiko, at any rate. And Lupin talks to much to play cards with, at least when we’re not on a job.”

Goemon watches him discard a card.

Goemon takes one from the stock. 

In the comfortable silence that falls between them, Jigen finds himself looking at Goemon, studying him. He looks different in the clothes that aren’t his. Ever since Jigen started running with Lupin, he’s been meeting people that seem less like criminals and more like cartoon characters. It makes it harder for him to grasp the literal samurai in his space. Jigen doesn’t know what to make of Goemon when he dresses like a samurai, and he doesn’t know what to make of him here in borrowed jeans and t-shirt. 

“Do you think the rain will let up before or after Lupin meets up with us?” Goemon asks.

Jigen shrugs.

Goemon tucks some hair behind his ear. “I like it, when it’s just us,” he says, his low voice soft. 

Jigen is overwhelmed suddenly with the feeling of how young Goemon is. This young stranger in front of him, not this young killer he knows. 

Jigen nods. 

“Gin,” he says, showing his sets.


	4. Chapter 4

Goemon looks at Jigen, across the table. He’s just in his shirtsleeves, the suit-jacket crumpled on the couch beside him. His hat is on but pushed back a little further, so that Goemon can better see his eyes. He’s unshaven. Thin and careworn in his clothes. Melancholy. Cigarette smoke hanging onto him like a bad omen. 

Goemon looks at Jigen, and he feels his heart speed a little. In a way that makes him feel strange. 

Fujiko is beautiful like a stolen relic. There is something about her that never seems quite real, a beauty to how much space she takes up, to the way light seems to rush to touch her. Fujiko is irresistible and overwhelming. Goemon thinks of the handful of times he’s kissed Fujiko, the handful of times they’ve touched each other, the handful of times she’s wrapped her fingers around him and made him sing in the dark. And Lupin is  _ fun _ , all roguish smile and jangling limbs and laughter. Lupin biting a kiss into his neck, Lupin telling him a bad joke while settling between his legs to suck his cock. 

Having sex with Fujiko, with Lupin felt inevitable, but also strangely transactional. A handshake both of them do with just about anyone they could think to meet. Sex with them didn’t change anything, and with both of them, Goemon knew it wouldn’t. Even after sex-- in hotel rooms and safehouses and cars-- Fujiko is holy and Lupin is irreverent.

And Jigen is like Goemon, which is to say--

Goemon looks at Jigen, and the air between them feels strange. Heavy. Significant.

Jigen has cards laying face up on the table. Goemon hasn’t been paying attention to the game, not really. Jigen has his cards laying faceup on the table and he’s looking at Goemon. 

“You whistle with the radio sometimes,” Goemon says, instead of fiddling with his cards. “I didn’t realize you liked ballet.”

“I don’t,” Jigen answers, automatically.

Goemon lays his cards down. He doesn’t have anything. 

“I knew someone,” Jigen continues, after a moment. “A woman. She was a dancer.”

“You don’t like women,” Goemon says. 

“I don’t  _ now _ ,” Jigen comments.

_ I like women _ , Goemon thinks.  _ I like men.  _

Jigen collects the cards. Shuffles them again, the paper slapping against the table, his hands. 

“How much longer will it take for your clothes to dry?” Jigen asks. 

“Soon, if it stops raining,” he answers. “If it doesn’t….never.”

Jigen huffs a short laugh, barely more than a breath. “Can’t come soon enough,” he says. “You don’t look like yourself.”

“I don’t feel like myself,” Goemon murmurs. 

Jigen deals more cards. He tosses them across the table. 

Goemon reaches out and grabs Jigen’s hand. Jigen looks up at him. 

Goemon pulls Jigen over the coffee table, grabbing his shirt with his other hand, and he kisses him.

There’s a tense moment, just a second, before Jigen relaxes. Before his hand reaches out to grab Goemon by the waist, into a crushing, powerful embrace.

Kissing Jigen tastes like cigarette smoke and black coffee, but it feels like the powerful, gracious emptiness of meditation. It feels wonderfully empty and silent and still, like Goemon is a vessel waiting to be filled. 

Jigen pulls away from him. His hat has fallen off. He looks even more disheveled. He takes a sharp breath. “Goemon, jeez, do you really want to--”   
“Yes,” Goemon answers. 

Jigen pulls him back, his large hand cupping his chin, bringing hm close to him. Goemon sighs into it, feeling the tension drain away between them, and earthly, comprehensible closeness take its place. 


	5. Chapter 5

Goemon is slight, but he’s all muscle and bone. He’s forceful, powerful, as he drags Jigen across the table and into a kiss. 

It’s been a long time, since anyone kissed him. It’s been a longer time since someone kissed him like  _ this _ \-- urgently and seriously. 

Goemon’s ribs curve under his hands. Jigen, kissing him,  finds his hands on his waist, his jaw. Jigen, kissing him, finds his hands sliding under the fabric of the t-shirt, his nails scratching against the skin of his sides. 

Goemon pulls away from him. Looks at him seriously. 

“We should do this in a bedroom,” he says. 

“Probably,” Jigen answers. 

Goemon looks down, at Jigen’s hands on him. At his own hands where they have fallen to meet him. 

He swallows. Jigen can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. 

Neither of them move. Just standing there, connected. 

“I am sorry I am so guided by my impulses,” Goemon says, suddenly. “I know this must seem...sudden.”

“It’s been awhile since anyone gave me the time of day,” Jigen answers. 

Goemon looks at him, as if studying him. His dark hair has fallen into his face, just a little. Jigen wants to reach out and tuck it back, but he doesn’t.

Goemon leans forward and kisses him, again. He takes both of his hands and pulls him across the apartment and into the bedroom Jigen’s been sleeping in alone.

The bed is unmade, but Goemon doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls him carefully to the bed and carefully begins to unbutton Jigen’s shirt. He shrugs out of it, leaving just his undershirt. 

Jigen takes his shirt off and watches as Goemon removes the one he’s wearing. 

Jigen knows they both have scars. He doesn’t comment on it. Neither does Goemon. 

It’s different. Jigen can feel the warmth of Goemon’s very skin against him as he leans forward to kiss him again, this time a little more demanding. His teeth nip at Jigen’s bottom lip, tongue lapping into his mouth. Jigen reaches around and forward, threading his fingers into Goemon’s thick, shaggy hair. 

Jigen tugs a little, and Goemon follows, his slender neck bowing, open and vulnerable to his advances. Jigen leans forward and bites a kiss into his neck. Goemon gasps, going still and then very  _ loose _ in his arms. His grip on Jigen changes, goes wide-fingered and static. Jigen eases him down onto the bed, slowly, and finds himself leaning over him. He wishes, suddenly, that he had his hat. Something to hide behind. 

Jigen kisses the joining of Goemon’s neck and shoulder, dipping into his sharp collarbone. Goemon pants and sighs, sweetly. 

Goemon, Goemon, Goemon. His name consumes Jigen’s thoughts. 

Jigen, if he had his druthers, would have a record player right now. Play something corny, like “Bolero.” No ballet. 

For now, though, he settles for the rough percussion of his own blood crashing inside his body, his breath hitting Goemon’s skin, the rasp and shudder of Goemon’s uncontrolled panting. 

Jigen feels every raised line of Goemon’s scars under his hands. 

Jigen feels Goemon underneath him, feels seized with an urge to love him extravagantly, foolishly. To love him the way Lupin would love him-- with gifts and praises and promises he could never keep. It’s an instinct that hits him from out of nowhere as he carefully unbuttons the four-button-fly on Goemon’s borrowed jeans. 

Touching Goemon is strange-- touching the parts of him that are usually hidden by his clothes. Touching Goemon, kissing Goemon, sliding the jeans down his hips and thighs, the first dark curls of his pubic hair appearing-- all of this leaves Jigen struck and overwhelmed. 

Touching Goemon feels like touching something he was never meant to  _ see _ \--crossing a boundary into a wild, unknowable country.

JIgen has earthly, mortal hands. It feels like sacrilege, touching beautiful, sacral Goemon. 

Goemon’s hands reach up, to grab his wrists. His grip is hard. Jigen looks at him, his eyes bright and sharp.

“I won’t break,” Goemon says. 

It takes Jigen a moment to realize he says this in Japanese. 

Is Goemon’s voice rougher, in Japanese? Lower? 

“I know,” Jigen answers. 

Goemon’s cock is slender, half hard. 

“Underwear,” Jigen says. “Wh-- where’s your uh, underwear?”

Goemon rolls his eyes. “Drying,” he says. He shifts his grip on Jigen’s wrists, twisting, and then he surges up and then--

Then he’s on top of him. Jigen’s hands are pressed against his own side, Goemon’s slender fingers vicelike around the bones of his wrist. 

The fly undone on his borrowed jeans,  his half-hard cock out. 

“Sword drawn?” Jigen murmurs 

Goemon’s eyes narrow, a lethal kind of look. He pulls forward, into Jigen’s face, and he kisses him suddenly, biting and pulling at his lip. 

“I won’t break,” he repeats, pulling away, looking at him. 

Jigen nods. “Give me my hands back,” he says. 

Goemon looks at him, almost fully naked on top of him. 

“You can slip out of handcuffs too easily,” he says, blankly. “I don’t know where Lupin keeps rope in this place.”

Jigen looks Goemon in his dangerous eyes. “This your way of telling me you plan on holding my hands all night?”

“Will you  _ touch _ me?” Goemon growls. 

“Yes,” Jigen answers. 

“Then  _ touch _ me,” Goemon says, letting go of Jigen’s wrists to lean over him, hands to either sides of his face.

Touching Goemon is touching a wild creature. His hands on his narrow hips, fingers curving around his muscular ass; Jigen looks up at the tiger he has captured, the tiger now sitting on top of him, hungry for pleasure Jigen wants him to take. 

Jigen fumbles with his own pants for a moment before Goemon somehow rips them away. Like something in a trashy book. He  _ rips _ his pants away.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Jigen swears. He feels his bloodflow shift precipitously, suddenly, like water falling off a cliff. His hands clench around Goemon’s hips hard enough to bruise. 

Goemon has callouses in funny places on his hands. His fingers are rough in unexpected ways as he wraps his hand around both of their cocks, jacking them together, bringing Jigen’s own blood to a boil. He gaps. He scratches at Goemon, feeling his bony spine slip away from under his fingers, his skin under his nails. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Goemon hisses. 

Jigen’s hand shakes, reaching for where Goemon holds both of them, straddled on his hips. 

Goemon bucks and stutters. Hard, in his own hand, in Jigen’s hand. Jigen curls forward toward him, into his space. Into their space, together. Both of them shake. Pant. 

Jigen wants to kiss him more, he thinks with unsettling clarity. 

Goemon bends down, over, caging Jigen in against the bed. Goemon’s hair drapes forward, into his eyes, onto Jigen’s chest. 

Together. Faster and Faster. Racing. Jigen’s breath chasing Goemon’s, Goemon collapsing, sinking, riding on top of him. 

Together, faster and faster. 

Goemon jacks him. Jigen’s hands crush Goemon’s hips in their iron grip. Goemon  _ gasps _ suddenly, and Jigen feels his grip still. Feels Goemon’s cock  _ come _ , feels it next to his own, feels the warmth and wetness of Goemon’s come against him.

Jigen’s hand shakes a little as he moves back to their cocks, and keeps going. A little slower, but he keeps going. 

He hasn’t come yet, and besides--

“You aren’t going to break,” Jigen says, firmly, as Goemon hisses. 

Jigen keeps going.


End file.
